


Heartaches By The Number

by The_Lionheart



Series: One Sword [4]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty, SCP Foundation
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asexual Character, At the Mountains of Madness, Backstory, Body Horror, Eldritch Abomination, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hive Mind, Horror, Multiverse, Nerdy Dads Road Trip, Prequel, Rick Sanchez's family is troubled, Softy Rick, TFW minor throwaway characters turn out to be adorable and I love them, Welcome back to the Cannibal Dimension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-06 08:12:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8741965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Lionheart/pseuds/The_Lionheart
Summary: With hopeful heart, I waited for your knock on the door,

   
      I waited, but you must have lost your way.





	1. A Tale of Two Sanchezes

He's born to a sixteen year old girl in 1951; he's in his early twenties and a father himself when he does the math and lets himself really, honestly think about what that must have been like. It is fall of 1974 and he has a daughter of his own when he affords a shred of pity to the scared girl who became his self-interested shrew of a mother- the kind of terror and insecurity that would lead a person to treating their child like a meal ticket, the frantic desperation that would lead a person to punishing that child for failing to turn a profit. He knows what it must have been like- he's already seen and done things that have made him realize he might be the smartest person alive. His daughter is nearly a month old when his mother reveals that she- against anything resembling better judgement- is pregnant again, hoping to recreate the magic. His name is Rick Sanchez and he knows with mathematical certainty that a brain like his is once-in-a-lifetime, and that she will not, _that she can not_ , bottle that lightning again. She does not listen, of course.

His sister is born- Beatriz Sanchez, long and skinny and fussy, and against every ounce of self-preservation in Rick's body he goes to see his parents so he can meet her. She is terribly unlike Beth as a baby- pinched and grasping, burrowing her face against the threadbare black shirt he's wearing when he holds her close and breaking into frustrated squalling at what she finds.

"Y-you wanna feed your kid or what?" he asks, and his mother raises an eyebrow.

"What kinda genius doesn't know how to put a bottle together?" she asks, and he doesn't bother responding as he carries the red-faced infant with him into the kitchen in search of formula. It take a little while, but when he finally sticks a bottle in the baby's mouth he feels something complicated and unwelcome happen in his chest as she eagerly and frantically empties it.

"Hey, Bea-bea, don't- don't drink so fast, kiddo," he says gently, jiggling her a little when she steadily ignores him. "Hey, Dummy- Dumb- Dumblebee, oh my god, you're gonna- you're gonna puke all that up, and then where are you gonna be?" She starts to fuss again, and he's spent enough of the last year taking care of Beth to know to shift her position on his chest and pat her back until her tummy settles.

He's hit with a sudden, irrational urge- this is a common occurrence for him. Today the urge is **_steal the baby_**. She's _already_ practically asleep and he could just stuff her down the front of his leather jacket and Marisa hasn't gotten rid of any of Beth's baby clothes yet, he could do it, he could take her out of here and his baby sister wouldn't grow up the way he did, she'd be _his_.

Something must show on his face, because his mother stands in the doorway for a second, watching him warily, before coming over and taking the sleeping infant in her arms.

"Gonna raise this one right," she says, glancing down at the baby with the closest thing to fondness Rick's ever seen on her face. "Not like you. Grateful."

"Okay, Mami," he mutters, because maybe it won't be as bad, at least until the baby gets to a certain age and she realizes that Bea's not as smart as he is. "I was thinking- could bring Beth around more, let her get to know Bea a little." Give him a chance to see her, check up on her. His mother hums an agreement, and Rick reminds himself that it's not letting her control him if he's only doing it to con her into letting him see his sister.

His mother glances over at him, sniffing. "You still in graduate school? I thought you had your Masters."

"Finishing up one of my doctorates, Mami." He's got some friends at school, sort of. Fellow students he sees a lot of because their interests overlap with his. He's got Marisa and Beth, and a terrifying brain full of ideas and plans to make his mark on the world, and he doesn't need one more thing but _oh my god he wants it_ , he wants this baby, or at least he wants to take it away from his parents, and-

-and he's still self aware enough, right now, to realize that maybe that's not the best reason to take her.

He can't stop himself from coming back with Beth in tow every couple of weeks- at least, until he accidentally figures out what it was he'd been missing in his plans for the portal gun and changes his life for-fucking-ever.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's 1986 and the eleven year old girl is used to the smell of smoke; she leans against his side, both her hands laced with his left hand as his right cradles a cigarette close. He hasn't been to see her in a while and she's happy just to be near him. He doesn't have the heart to tell her that it's just for a few days this time.

He thinks if he could just get his shit together- finish this rebellion, finish the Galactic Federation, save his friends and make those bastards pay- that he could come home forever. Take his baby sister away from his parents, because how could they stop him? Get her somewhere better, get an apartment near where Marisa and Beth live. He entertains the thought of his sister and his daughter growing up together, being friends at school.

He takes a long drag of his cigarette, and his sister elbows him right in the bony ridge of his ribcage.

"Wh-what?" Rick asks, and Bea frowns up at him.

"You're not supposed to smoke, it's bad for you," she tells him seriously, and he snorts. "I'm serious! What if you die?"

"I'm never going to die, f-first of all," he informs her loftily, and she frowns and shoves him again.

"Mr. Person said you will," she replies, and Rick makes a mental note to kick Birdperson's ass when they get back together on Tuesday.

"Why would he s-say that?" Rick asks, and she shrugs. "Did you ask him if I'm gonna die, Dumblebee?"

"Yeah," she mutters sullenly, and she really must be worried if she's not smiling at his stupid nickname for her.

"And did he say something like w-we're all gonna die eventually?" he asks, and she shrugs. Rick sighs. "Well, yeah, kiddo. Everybody dies. Me, you. Mami. Dad. Nobody lives f-forever."

"So Mr. Person was just... being literal?" she asks carefully. "Mr. Squanchy said Mr. Person is bein' literal a lot."

"He's always literal, kid. That's just- just how he is," Rick says, and she doesn't entirely understand, but she nods, mulling it over.

"So you're not gonna die, like, soon?" she asks hopefully. Rick tousles her hair, stubbing the cigarette out on the crumbling brick of the wall they're sitting on.

"Nah, I'm probably not gonna die anytime soon," he lies. He's going to have to let her down gently one of these days. She still looks at him like he's responsible for every good thing in life; he knows one day he is going to have to disabuse her of that notion but right now- right now, selfishly, he wants this, no matter how little he deserves it. He reaches into his pocket and hands her a neon-bright flower, crushed from the trip. "Guess where I got this?"

"A new dimension you didn't explore before?" she asks hopefully, and he nods. She loves hearing about the new dimensions- places where he's just there exploring, looking for new things, looking for people and plants and animals and really, honestly, anything he might find useful. "You gotta take me someday, Ricky."

"I know, kiddo. Soon. It's not safe yet," he says, leaning over and pressing his lips against her forehead and blowing a raspberry on it. She starts giggling. "Ohhh, gross, Bea, you- you f-farted out of your face, gross."

"No I didn't, Rick!" she protests, and he pulls his arm around her shoulders and does it again.

"You keep doing it, you keep farting," he complains, and she squawks and laughs and tries to shove him away. She starts whapping his shoulder with her flat little hands, and it sort of stings and all, but at least he's successfully distracted her from the subject of portal-jumping with him. It really is too dangerous to bring a kid along, at least for now. She's smart, though- not Rick smart, obviously- but smart enough that he could one day.

Their mother has figured it out by now that Bea's not Rick-smart. Rick hasn't asked Bea yet if their mother ever says anything about it, but he thinks he knows the answer every time he asks Bea how she's doing in school. He's gotten used to making the same too-blank, too-false smile she makes, every time someone asks him how his marriage with Marisa is going.

She treats the junk from his trips through the multiverse like they're something precious.

He lets her pull away, and he feels like an asshole when he tests, "Hey, you know, if there's anything you need help with in school, I'm sure I-I could explain it or-"

She flashes the smile at him, shoulders hunching slightly. "It's okay, Ricky. I wouldn't understand it, anyway."

He watches her pull away, and he doesn't know how to fix what he just did, so he waits a few minutes and changes the subject.

As usual.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He sees her less and less as his marriage dissolves and the Rebellion starts losing more than it wins. It doesn't help that when he does get a chance to visit Earth, he usually spends a day or two popping over to Oregon to meet with his old lab partner. He tells himself that he's in no place to call Pines anything but his old lab partner.

He takes Bea to the movies for her twelfth birthday- Steve Martin and John Candy enthrall Bea, her popcorn half forgotten in her lap as she laughs helplessly at the screen. Rick is just trying to catch a few minutes of sleep, but he picks up a few lines here and there- he can see why the kid's laughing so hard, at least, it's... it's a stupid movie.

Del Griffith reminds him of Pines, for some reason, only... only that doesn't really make much sense.

It's exactly the right movie for a twelve-year-old, though. Every time Rick sees her for the next six months she tells him some slightly botched variation of the ball handling joke.

Marisa hasn't let him bring Beth over to his parents' house in years- he doesn't blame her, not exactly, but he feels like his girls would get along, that Beth needs a buddy and Bea just needs anybody.

Beth's a freshman in high school when Stan Pines ~~breaks up with~~ tells Rick that he can't do this anymore. He tells himself that it's fine because, seriously, he wasn't- he didn't come here to make friends or- it doesn't matter because he's being called to do some important shit for the Rebellion, he doesn't- he doesn't have time for Pines anymore.

He says goodbye to Beth first; she doesn't take it well, he thinks, but she- but she'll be better off, Rick reminds himself, drinking alone in the back of his car and trying to forget the sight of his only daughter screaming at him that nobody wants his junkie ass around. Marisa just stood and watched, stonefaced. Nobody would want him around a kid.

He thinks it would be easier with Bea, but when she sees him her whole face lights up, and he- he can't.

"Are you gonna be gone for a while?" she asks abruptly over dinner. They're at a place with a buffet- Quincy's, according to the logo on the plates- and Rick's barely able to eat anything except for the weirdly addictive yeast rolls.

"Wh-why do you ask that?" he asks, and she sighs at him.

"You took me out to a nice dinner just you an' me and you're bein' quiet instead'a talkin' about space politics or farts or whatever," she says quietly, poking her salisbury steak. "Is Mr. Person and Mr. Squanchy okay?"

"They're okay, they're okay," Rick reassures her. She gives him a tentative smile, and he reaches over the table and ruffles her hair. "Don't worry about it, kiddo. They're okay. And y-yeah, you got me, I'm- I gotta- I'll be gone for a little while, I don't know how long."

"But you'll tell me when you're back," she presses, and he nods. "Are you gonna tell me if you, um, if you're not okay?"

"Squanchy'll come if I'm not okay," he tells her. She nods at him.

"Okay, Ricky."

"O-okay, Dumblebee. H-hey, you wanna get me a plate of that chocolate pudding, kiddo?"

"Get your own pudding," she tells him sternly, stuffing candied yams into her mouth.

The last time she sees him, he's stepping through the green swirl of an open portal, and she's making a face at the color.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's more than ten years later before he returns to Earth-46*\\. He tells himself it's because he's busy- he has been- and that he's avoiding Federation agents- he is- and even though he can't stand the thought of having to spend time with other versions of himself and hates everything a "Council of Ricks" stands for he's incredibly grateful that Riq IV called him in to tell him that he's- he's a grandfather. He's got _two_ grandkids. He can't even wrap his head around it, although he's incredibly pissed when he realizes that some idiot must have knocked Beth up in high school.

Not all of the other Ricks have kid sisters. Most of the ones who do haven't seen their Beas in as many years as this Rick hasn't, so nobody has any information about how she's doing, but that- that's sort of telling, too.

Most Ricks don't move back home to be with Beth and the kids. The other Ricks- those that still keep in contact- tell him that he's being stupid, that he's criminally soft-hearted, that he's going to get caught, that he's going to get all of them caught. He doesn't give a fuck what they say, and they respect that if nothing else.

Beth doesn't know Bea's name when he asks. Marisa's remarried, but at least she picks up the phone when he calls. He finds out that his parents have died, and he can't pretend he doesn't care, but he doesn't visit their graves either.

Bea hadn't been at the funerals.

Rick invents things around his grandkids- toys, mostly. Robots that play peekaboo. Stupid shit that makes the two of them think he's a miracle worker. It takes a few tries, but he perfects a DNA scanner and searches for every living person on the planet who shares his DNA.

Beth. Morty. Summer. Rick himself.

He reconfigures it twice before he accepts that it's not going to show anyone else.

He builds a scanner to search for dead bodies that are enough of a genetic match to be immediate family. It leads him to a small double grave in a dinky little cemetery- Mauricio and Yvonne Sanchez. No one else, no matter how many times he tries. He pours one out for his parents and goes home.

(He caves, after three years, and calls Rick-J19ζ7 to find out if he knows what happened to his own Bea. He thinks it's petty and unRicksmanlike to call him "Doofus" Rick, but he also thinks he's the only Rick who would be sentimental enough to help him out. But Doofus Rick can't help him, because he never lost his Bea, because that asshole's sister is fine and happy and runs an old movie theater in California and gets to see her Rick all the time. Doofus Rick doesn't shut up about how happy she is and how happy they are when they're together, and Rick sort of starts to see why the other Ricks- especially Ricks who had Beas- kind of hate this Rick a little.)

Zeta-Seven still calls him up once in a while, though, and gives him little updates about how she's doing, and Rick's grateful that at least somewhere his sister's okay.

Summer and Morty grow up with Rick around more often than not.

Soft, the other Ricks call him, but-

-well-

-maybe it would have been better if he'd been softer, before.

"H-hey Morty," Rick says, when Morty's fourteen. He hasn't seen his sister since she was the age Morty is now. "Hey, you wanna do something c-cool with your Grandpa?"

He shoots a portal open and waggles the portal gun in his hand; Morty's eyes light up.

"Sure, Rick, let's- let's go!"


	2. Transcript of Dr. Elliot's Seminar, "Butterfly Effect: What to Expect When Encountering Alternate Universe Versions Of Yourself"

"Good morning, agents. Congratulations on your promotions, everyone. Now please- come in towards the front, everyone. Thank you."

"Please hold all questions until the end of the session. Today we're going to discuss some of the more common pitfalls of interdimensional travel. By and large, it is our sincere hope that none of you will ever have to find yourselves in a situation where you are no longer within the confines of your native reality, but, of course, accidents do happen. As some of you may know, I myself have been, at one time, lost in the multiverse. Luckily, like each of you, I had my training to fall back on. Still, there are some things training does not... adequately prepare you for."

"I am, of course, referring to the so-called Mirrorverse Theory: That there is not just an alternate world, but a world so similar to ours that everything and everyone in it is virtually identical. Very few of you will ever meet your doubles, but luckily, this forty-five minute seminar will hopefully give you the tools you need to know how to deal with that situation. I am, of course, merely joking-"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dr. Christopher Elliot, Head Archivist of Transdimentional Exploration, Clearance Level 3, snaps his cadet-blue leather folio shut and gives the slim, scarred former Mobile Task Force member lurking in the back of the lecture hall a small smile.

"Agent Grayson, as I live and breathe," he greets, tucking the folio under his arm. "I haven't seen much of you lately, Arliss. What brings you around?"

Arliss Grayson instinctively dips his shoulder in a shrug, the scar at the corner of his mouth tugging perpetually into a gentle sneer. His hair is a little shaggier and grayer, and his hands shake when he's not holding a gun, but otherwise- well, otherwise the years have been good to him, considering. Most of the people he knew when he first joined with the Foundation at twenty-three have been dead for years. By non-Foundation standards, though, he's a terrible-looking forty-three.

"Can't I come say hello to an old friend?" Grayson asks, and Dr. Elliot snorts.

"I mean, you could, but it wouldn't necessitate creeping into a lecture and spooking half of the new recruits, so-"

"I gotta ask you something, Doc," Grayson says, stepping forward. Dr. Elliot waits patiently, as Grayson glances around to ensure their privacy- a little overcautious, perhaps, but not unreasonably so. Finally, Grayson asks, "Remember when we were stranded out there, Doc?"

"Of course," Dr. Elliot says, blinking. "In fact, our experiences traversing and surviving the multiverse inform the bulk of my lecture material-"

"You remember the girl, right?" Grayson asks, and Dr. Elliot blinks at him.

"The pet girl," Grayson clarifies, and Dr. Elliot nods. Grayson bounces restlessly on the balls of his feet for a few seconds. "D'you remember she mentioned meeting a Foundation agent?"

"Yes, vaguely," Dr. Elliot admits. Their encounter with the lost-looking human woman had lasted only minutes out of their harrowing six-day experience, but it had been particularly memorable.

"MTF guy," Grayson says, pulling out a flash drive. "Look, just- I could use another set of eyes on this, Doc, but I think we might've found the guy."

"Alive?" Dr. Elliot asks, morbidly curious, and Grayson shrugs.

"Probably not. The entire unit was wiped out in their last mission- Tau-4."

"What was that, one of the occult-focused groups?" Dr. Elliot takes the drive, because Grayson is his friend, in the weirdly uncomfortable way that shared trauma can make people friends, but he doesn't expect this latest round of Operation: Wild Goose-Chase to be any more fruitful than the last. "Wonder why they were never reinstated."

"Funny thing," Grayson says, shifting a little. "They're about to be, actually. They were focused on anomalies related to one specific individual who was producing enormous numbers of anomalous devices- sort of a cross between Wondertainment and The Factory, from before Wondertainment really started making waves. Was a while there that people thought the guy _was_ Dr. Wondertainment, or some kind of... prototype. The task force became obsolete because the guy just flat-out disappeared, nobody heard from him."

"What were they called? Or, I guess, what will they be-" Dr. Elliot starts.

"Labcoats," Grayson says, giving his friend a crooked smile. "They're callin' us 'Labcoats' now. A little on the nose, but, eh."

"They're giving it to you?" Dr. Elliot asks, clapping a hand onto Grayson's shoulder. "Well done, Arliss, nobody deserves it more than you do."

"Don't wish that on a guy, Doc," Grayson says, ducking his head and sidling out of Dr. Elliot's range. "Anyway, that's... that's why I'm here. This joker's started popping back up on people's radars, you know? He might've been back for the last decade or more, but we're starting to think a number of his... creations were being mislabeled as Wondertainment pieces, we think at least one of his devices has been in use by the Maxwellians, and we had a huge breach of reality at some point in the past thirty years or within the next ninety days- some weird thing the boys in Chronology picked up, I don't know, but-"

"So this guy's back in play, and he just so happens to be the same guy Tau-4 was on the hunt for when they all died," Dr. Elliot finishes, and Grayson nods jerkily. "And you think this is related to that woman we met?"

"The team was headed up by Aengus Ferguson- you ever meet that guy? He was a fuckin' character, one of those guys who used to leave weird notes in the containment procedures and pal around with the wacky higher-ups in the day- but the second-in-command is listed as John Savage. I'd like you to take a look at all the data I got on there and tell me if anything knocks your noggin." Grayson clears his throat. "Anyway, Doc, look, I don't expect us to be out in the field too much unless we get solid reason to think the guy's in one particular spot or another, but... well, I want you in on this."

"Arliss, I'm touched," Dr. Elliot says, blinking a little before giving him a smile. "I'd like to sleep on it before I make a decision- I'm not the man I used to be."

"None of us are, Doc," Grayson says, smiling warmly. "We'll talk over lunch tomorrow, right?"

"Right," Dr. Elliot says, and Grayson gives him a thumbs' up.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dr. Elliot makes himself a pot of coffee when he gets to his apartment- nothing special, not particularly homey, just on-site housing that rarely sees visitors and has little in the way of personal effects. Christopher Elliot is the type of man who makes an entire 12-cup carafe knowing that it will take him three days to finish it off unless something comes up, and barely notices the difference in flavor between the fresh brew and the dregs. Christopher Elliot is the type of man who refers to himself as "Dr. Elliot" in the privacy of his own mind, because there is no one who calls him by his given name. He is the type of man who has friends because he knows that if he doesn't have a requisite number of personal relationships he will be more susceptible to certain types of mind-altering scips and psychological warfare, and so allots himself a specific number of friends and friendly interactions per day. He is the type of man who would never choose to be friends with a man like Arliss Grayson, and is perplexed but accepting of the fact that the grizzled veteran of a hundred recovery missions is not just his best friend but perhaps the closest to a soulmate he'll ever have.

Dr. Elliot is the type of man who owns over a dozen coffee mugs, because Arliss Grayson is under the impression that he loves coffee and therefore desires coffee mugs, and Dr. Elliot is the type of man who likes to try to guess what esoteric sentiment Grayson attached to each mug when selecting it for purchase.

Dr. Elliot sits with a hot, fresh mug in hand- a dreadfully inappropriate hand-made effort that was made, he suspects, by one of their more asshole-ish coworkers, imperfectly resembling the face and head of SCP-173, and given four years ago as a birthday present from a beaming Grayson- and starts reading through the files Grayson gave him.

Much of it is recent- speculative notes attached to existing containment procedures, suggesting a connection to the mysterious target of their investigations. Some sort of rogue scientist; nothing particularly special or eye-catching.

He clicks through to the older documentation, sipping at his coffee. The Mobile Task Force disappeared without a trace in the process of the investigation in late July of 1994; the last action report was given in fragments, the victim of spotty telecommunication lines and overzealous redactions. Most of their reports were fairly standard- seeking out traces of Person of Interest 4-618, with incident reports detailing stories given by survivors and bystanders reaching back until the early 1970's, and a sudden drop in activity somewhere around the end of 1988 and the beginning of 1989, with unusual spikes that correlated to fluctuations in extradimensional particles and energy incursions in the early 1980's. The last reports- the report that first suggested that the Scientist was out of this iteration of reality, and the final reports from Ferguson and Savage- were tabbed with results Grayson had found on Foundation servers for intradimensional energy readings, showing small, powerful, localized holes in reality that remained open far longer than the naturally-occurring slips into other dimensions that sometimes cropped up. Ferguson's reports were rambling and, Dr. Elliot had to admit, full of the... _personality_ that had been a hallmark of certain Foundation agents in the early days of Dr. Elliot's career. Savage's reports were concise and to the point, although he also had what would nowadays be considered a somewhat unprofessional habit of leaving small personal notes to himself in the margins.

In the end, the final reports submitted by Ferguson were almost illegible, but Dr. Elliot found himself drawn to the last two notes Savage had jotted down as asides on his superior's reports.

_July ██, 1994_

_We think we're getting close to ███████ now; there's just one problem. Something else is hunting him, too. I know Ferguson doesn't want to lose face on this, it's just one skinny bastard, how hard can it be? He's refusing to admit the danger we're in here from the ██████ who are hunting ███████, but this has to end._

_This isn't going to end well._

_SiC Savage, John_

_July ██, 1994_

_It's not him. It's not ███████. Or... it is, but not the one we're looking for. We're so fucked. The thing hunting ███████ was using us to find him. We led this thing straight to a couple of civilians. If Ferguson won't do the right thing, I will._

_Savage out._

Dr. Elliot finishes reading by the time he's finished his second cup. He carefully washes out his mug- he'd hate for something to happen to it- and puts it in the dish rack.

He lies down on his bed and stares at the ceiling.

On the one hand, it's not like he's doing anything exciting nowadays. Isn't this what all the senior agents and researchers want? An exciting retirement?

He's not old enough to retire. Then again, he's not going to be young enough to enjoy "retirement" for much longer.

He thinks about that girl, fifteen years ago, and the fact that the last thing he knows for sure is that eighteen years ago, John Savage- just another man, after all, just another agent like Arliss- tried to save her from a terrible fate and was removed from reality and cast into the multiverse, if he was lucky enough to survive past his parting with the girl.

He thinks the hunt for this rogue scientist might end in the sudden death-or-disappearance of MTF Tau-4, again.

He thinks it'll mean that he gets to see Arliss every day, now.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 MTF Tau-4 ("Labcoats") ends up being a group of five people- Grayson and Dr. Elliot, two younger agents, and a junior researcher who unironically brought a box of matching t-shirts for them to wear. Dr. Elliot doesn't recognize anyone as having ever attended even one of his classes on multidimensional travel. He takes a peek at their personnel files- higher than average assessments in general, with some deepseated personality issues that couldn't be shaken by weeks and months of extra training. He digs a little deeper; mostly, he sees, their issues lie in their inability to be objective in a Foundation that depends utterly on its field agents and scientists knowing where to draw the line between compassion and ruthlessly protecting the greater good. Dr. Elliot wonders if Grayson chose the team for this reason, or if this was their last shot at being useful before washing out of the Foundation's resource pool entirely.

He rather thinks it's a little bit of both, but, as usual, he doesn't want to ask Grayson to verbalize his selection process.

Their Mobile Command Center is an older model that makes the kids groan (kids, Dr. Elliot sighs internally, they're all in their early twenties) and is mocked up to look like a Winnebago.

"This is good camouflage," one of the agents says quietly to the other. "Because no one in their right mind would suspect nerdy dads on a roadtrip with their three adult children in an awful RV."

"You're being an asshole," the other agent hisses back. Grayson and Dr. Elliot both pretend they cannot hear this.

The agents refer to one another by codenames only; they rope the junior researcher into this behavior, too, and they begin giving Grayson and Dr. Elliot increasingly difficult codenames. Dr. Elliot suspects that the reinstitution of Tau-4 is the result of a slight budget surplus and an overindulgent Site Director, but he's not going to complain. He hasn't had this much fun in years.

They're at a gas station when all of their instruments- a couple of hume counters, energy detectors, assorted devices that Junior Researcher Angelface nee Doreen Simmons likes to explain as "the stuff that dings when the thing happens" -all go haywire.

Agent Tango and Agent Ginger rush out of the RV and snag Grayson and Dr. Elliot just as they finish purchasing a tank of gas and a healthy variety of bagged jerkies.

"Alpha Dad, Super Pop," Agent Ginger says, breathless and wide-eyed. "The things did the thing."

"They dinged?" Junior Researcher Angelface asks, and Agent Tango shakes their head.

"No, they... did not ding. They're exploding," they say, awed, and Dr. Elliot slaps three twenties onto the counter and hustles them out of the station before the attendant can offer change for the gas and the snacks.

The inside of the Mobile Command Center is a madhouse, readouts and screens all giving the same result- a powerful, unstable, short tear in the fabric of reality, some sort of incursion from another plane.

Dr. Elliot surveys the information, before passing a few pages to Grayson. Grayson studies it for a few minutes, before giving Agents Tango and Ginger and Junior Researcher Angelface a sunny smile.

"Looks like we're headed to Oregon, team."

As the team starts packing up and getting ready to go, Grayson leans in with a perplexed expression on his weathered face.

"Doc, which one of us is Alpha Dad and which one of us is Super Pop?" he asks, and Dr. Elliot shrugs.

"I'm not sure it matters, Grayson. They've got both of us responding to 'dad,' so," he says, and shrugs.

"True," Grayson says, conceding the point.


	3. The Gospel of the Unswerving

1\. You are born. This happens in every universe, every dimension, every single shade of the multiverse, and you are immediately and utterly aware of this. In some dimensions, like this one, you cannot show this part of yourself to your parents, to your neighbors. You know who you are and you know who you will be and you know that in an infinite multiverse with paths that unfold countlessly despite the best efforts of your self / your future self / your alternate self, some of you will suffer and fail and some of you will suffer and succeed. You are here not to save the world, but all worlds, and you know this. You would never do or be anything else.

2\. This is why they call you the Unswerving.

3\. Your childhood is difficult. You must endure much. When neighborhood boys throw stones at you and your sisters for being the wrong color, for being feminine, for being poor: you remind your sisters (and more honestly, yourself) that the world is still worth saving, that these children will not all grow into bad men, and that you would still save the ones who become bad men if it means saving the ones who do not. Some days it is harder than others to remember this.

4\. Your adulthood is difficult. You must endure much. When they try to stop you from pursuing your dreams, your callings, your destinies, you know that for every universe where they succeed there are ten where they do not, where you blossom into the fullness of your happiness and where you become the healer/surgeon/doctor/scientist. It does not sting any less when you realize that you are one of the you's who will fail, through no fault of your own, through no demonic outer workings or grand master plans but through the petty evils of mortals who cannot bear to see your excellence. You remind yourself that you are willing to endure even more if it means being the hero and helper of heroes you were born to be.

5\. They call you Jesse Brahm and J'zel B'rem and Jheselbraum and Jessie Broom. These words are all your name; your title is the Unswerving, your role is the Oracle. You did not choose any of these names, or this title, or this role. You know there is no point in railing against the writ of the multiverse. You know there is no use in bitterness. In some worlds you are told that God works in mysterious ways, that the Creator's will may not be questioned, that all things serve the Beam, that all things are born to serve. You know the ways in which these sayings are both untrue and true.

6\. In this time, in this place, you are Jessie. In this world, as in all worlds such as this, you are born into a mortal body among mortal people, and you know already that when your time here is over you will be taken to the oasis in the center of the multiversal spiral: Dimension 52, the place where you always come to rest.

7\. In this time, in this place, you grow up, you grow old. In all the worlds where you live on an Earth, you meet a Child. In some, you grow up together. In some, you meet at the very end of your life on Earth-  usually as one last act of defiance against the forces of evil. In this world, you are old and weathered, and have over a decade left of time hanging over your head, when you find the Child: knees raw and bleeding, in mismatched socks and ragged shoes and a hand-me-down shirt. The Child is hiding in the garden behind your house, behind the bench that stands next to the ornamental koi pond.

8\. You know about some of the other Children: Some of them are twins, codependent little boys who need the protection of you-as-the-warrior, who wander too close to shards of glass and dark corners. Some of them are twins, bright little flickers of light and flame who need the advice of you-as-the-sage, who fall too easily prey to vicious children and indisidious thoughts. Some of the Children are singletons, embittered by the mistakes of their parents, the mistakes of their siblings, the mistakes of their teachers. In a thousand million worlds you have met these other Children and you love them: the Children who become Warriors, the Children who become Scientists, the Children who become Voices and Masters and Mothers and Fathers and Priests and Heretics. You despair for your love of them, and have eagerly awaited the arrival of the one who, in this place and in this time, is yours.

9\. You know what the mortals in this neighborhood say about you: the children call you a witch and a hag, and those are gentler and politer than the words in the mouths of their parents. You have seen this child in passing before: in the arms of a mother and a father, in the arms of an adult brother, toddling along after him with an expression of worshipful adoration that the gods of lesser worlds would kill for. You see her crouching in the dirt with her face pressed against the white-painted wrought-iron bench, and a hundred million possibilities close themselves off from you forever: this one is yours. There are hundreds and hundreds of futures spread out before you. She looks at you and she can't be more than five or six years old, young enough to still believe in magic and witches and hags.

10\. She is afraid: not, you realize, of you specifically. You are an adult and you are tall. She is a child and she is small. She has learned to be skittish around anyone bigger than she is. You find that you're not so old, yet, that you can't become you-the-protector for her.

11\. "Hello there," you say carefully, crouching down. "Are you playing a game?"

12\. She says nothing, chewing anxiously on a fistful of cotton material from the collar of her shirt. The shirt is large enough to go down to her knees and was jet-black once, and the band name across the front has faded with countless washes.

13\. "That can't be very tasty," you try. "Would you like some tea? I think I've got tea and crackers. Are you old enough for hard candy? I might have some hard candy."

14\. She blinks and continues to say nothing. You're not entirely sure what it is a child of this age would respond to.

15. "Have I said or done something to offend you, kiddo?" you ask, at a loss. "If so, I humbly apologize."

16. "I'm not 'apposed'a talk to strangers," she says, affronted. "Ricky said."

17\. "This is wise," you tell her, considering this. "Why are you hiding in my garden?"

18\. "Ricky and Mami are fighting about Tia Marisa," she says glumly, before narrowing stormy-hazel eyes at you. "You tryna find out about Ricky's secret stuff?"

19\. "Heavens, no," you say, blinking a little as you sort through an infinity of your alternate iterations: Ricky. Rick. One of the Scientists. You shake your head firmly. "I know too much about Rick as it is," you say decisively. "I have no wish to learn more."

20\. This is a gentle lie, but it is the right one. She relaxes. "What kind of hard candy is it?"

21\. "It's green," you say. She stands up. Green was, apparently, the correct kind.

22\. You learn about this child. She takes her tea with more sugar than can be healthy and thinks her brother is the best although, she also admits, his friends are also pretty good. Her name is Bee, like the thing that eats flowers. You do not find it necessary to correct her entomology. She does not like your hard candy, but she eats all of your crackers. Her brother likes science (she shares this, despite your earlier assertion that you'd prefer not to learn anything else about Rick Sanchez.) She does not like science unless it's Rick doing the science. You ask her what she likes and she shrugs.

23\. "Do you know what I like?" you ask solemnly. She shakes her head, eyes huge. "I like axolotls."

24\. You explain what axolotls are. You show her the mottled lavender axolotl you keep in a tank in your parlor. She loves it immediately. You lend her a slim book about salamanders and tell her that she'll find axolotls in the book, and that if she finds a word she cannot read you will explain it to her when she comes back.

25\. She comes back the next day, and the next.

26\. She does not come back for four days in a row. When she finally returns, she explains that Ricky was home and she wanted to stay with Ricky and Bethie.

27\. You watch the child grow, and you sift through the realities offered to you. You know there are iterations of you who have to watch this child die. You know there are iterations of you who have to watch this child suffer. You know there are iterations where this beautiful child dies bloody, where she turns cold and hard, where she kills people for profit, for fun, for no reason but that she was told to do so.

28\. You do not pray often. It feels like cheating when you can confront your god whenever you wish. You pray: let me find the path that keeps her safe and happy and healthy.

29\. Your god does not respond. The correct path is no clearer for your prayer.

30\. You remember the eternal truth that all of You know: There is a Right Path. It is not always easy to know which path it is. It is generally not an easy path to take. It is usually painful.

31\. She makes you a Christmas card every year, despite the fact that you have told her many times that you do not follow any religion of this planet.

32\. "Neither does Ricky," she reasons when you try to correct her. It does no harm to accept the cards, you decide. Every year: _Merry Christmas, Grandma Jessie. I hope you get everything you want. Love_ ; and then a drawing of a bumblebee. Your little joke.

33\. A year and a half after she first starts coming, you feel the stirrings of fate. It is 1982 and for just a moment, the Nightmare Realm touches your world.

34\. You dream of her, of her path: The prickly pear cactus. Righteous vengeance. The ace of swords. The den of vipers. The twin pines.

35\. You see her in the dream: Her choices will shape not just her life, but the lives of countless. She unleashes a veritable river of human blood, devours the sun and moon out of the very sky itself, destroys the entire world out of her unbridled fury and thirst for revenge. Just as easily, she is capable of inhuman acts of mercy and compassion, of bridging impossible worlds to save everyone worthy or unworthy, of recreating a destroyed universe.

36\. You do not know what this dream means, but you know, with a sinking heart, that there are other iterations of you that do. You realize that , like the pitiable Scientist Pines, she will be lost to the multiverse, and there is nothing you can do about it.

37\. You can give her a place to belong here, in this world, in this time. It will have to be enough.

38\. Sometimes she comes straight from school, subdued and ashamed and unable to articulate what it is that's bothering her. You do not ask her about her schooling. (The number of worlds in which she graduates high school is vanishingly small. You think she might do it here, because she is desperate to join her brother on the semi-mythical pedestal she's placed him on, but it will not bring her any joy.)

39\. Sometimes she comes in the middle of the day, and you do not ask if she is skipping class because you know already that she is.

41\. Sometimes she comes in the middle of the night, and you do not need to ask.

42\. Once, you do ask.

43\. "Would you tell me if anyone was hurting you over there, kiddo?" you ask, and she blinks sleepily at you over the mug of cocoa in her hands.

44\. "Uh huh," she agrees, taking a big sip and looking anywhere but in your direction.

45\. She does not tell you. She never tells you.

46\. You find ways to arrange for her to stay with you as often as her parents will allow. It's not nearly often enough for your liking.

47\. You try your best. You're not sure what it is you are supposed to do with this Child. Her struggles are small and private. She is not on the fated Cipher Wheel. Her brother is a force of nature, bending reality and everyone around him to form the narrative of his epic journey. He knows she loves him, and surely he knows that he is one of the best things in her young life-

48\. -but he does not see her the way you see her. He does not see the way she brightens up like a supernova on legs when he comes back, or the way she crawls just a little deeper into herself when he leaves.

49\. She grows up. You grow older.

50\. There are so many paths ahead. You do not know which one belongs to the Child who tries so hard to help you with your garden when your knees are too old and rusty to do it.

51\. He leaves and she tries to be hopeful. Weeks become months, months become years. She stops imagining that he will one day save her. You ask her, frail and infirm, what she will do, what she would like to do. Her answers are distressingly empty. You fret. You are the Unswerving. You are the Oracle. You are the hero and helper of heroes. What good is the will of a benevolent god if you see every future for her include blood and hunger and sleeplessness and pain? How are you helping her? (Once and just once, you think perhaps it means she is not a hero, and you are unable to help anyone who is not. You realize immediately that this is in error. Still. You wonder.) You know that you will not be long for this world. She is terribly sad, seventeen years old and at your bedside for ever-increasing stretches of time. You hate what it will do to her when you leave- you don't die, you never die, and it's too late and you're too old now to tell her, to explain. It is for the best. If you tell her that you will be assumed into a strange new dimension in a different part of the multiverse to live on infinitely in the presence of a hivemind of your alternate selves, she will absolutely try to find a way to travel the multiverse looking for you. At least if she thinks her brother is the only way to travel the multiverse, you think, she has a higher chance of staying here, where it's safe. You know at least some of her iterations do get to stay. She is gone when the time comes. You hate that she will come into the house and find you missing. You leave her a note: another gentle lie, stating that a distant relative is moving you to a hospice center in another state. Instead of her name, you draw a little bumblebee. Your little joke. You close your eyes to sleep and you wake up in Dimension 52, just as you knew you would, just as you always do.

52\. You see her nearly twenty years later. She does not remember you- your face is different, but your voice and smell are not. She does not remember herself, either. She goes by a different name, does not even recognize her old name when you say it. There are still so, so many paths ahead, some of the hellish, some of them not. You must trust that her path will be the right one.


	4. An Awfully Big Adventure

They meet for the first time in the woods near town. She will always remember him as a confused, blinking hulk of a teenager. He will always remember her as a freckled girl crowned with ginger fire, her hair tied up in a knot.

"Hey, I know you," she says, leaning her axe handle on a stump. "Didn't you build that weird science guy's house up on Gopher Road?"

"I-" he says, and stops, frowning. "I don't... know. Did I?"

She laughs, and the knot in his chest unties itself. He finds himself smiling, even though it's more than a little perplexing.

"So," she continues, tucking a strand of hair behind one ear. "Are you going up to see his house? Susie says he does shows now. Kind of goofy, but it's somethin' to do, right?"

"Oh?" he asks, his hands clutching at his flannel shirt. His mind races- Dan, he remembers suddenly, he's Daniel- and he looks helplessly around. The girl's smile fades into a small frown.

"You're not wearing any gloves," she says, and he nods absently. "Where's your axe?"

"I don't know," he says slowly. Her frown deepens.

"You- what were you doing in the woods?"

" _I don't know_ ," he says, bewildered, and she blinks at him, before something in her face softens.

"Let's get back to my cabin and see if we can figure out what's going on, okay?"

"Okay," he says, gathering up her firewood without being asked.

At her house, she makes him sit on a small, overstuffed couch while she makes tea. The house doesn't feel familiar- it feels like he's never been here before, but Dan's not entirely sure if he knows that or not. He struggles to remember the girl's name, and it occurs to him in a flash- Jaqueline. Jackie Slater. He only knows the name because she placed first in axe-throwing in the Junior Lumberjack games last year in her age group. The memory unfurls slowly: the smell of pine resin and sawdust, the announcer's canvas tent, the comforting thunk of axe heads burying themselves in wood.

He breathes in the smell of her living room, and a whole flood of information settles back into place. It's 1983 and Dan Corduroy's nineteen, and he hasn't started growing a beard yet so people still teasingly call him Boyish Dan. Jackie Slater's parents moved to Gravity Falls six years ago and opened up an art gallery downtown, the first one ever. Dan's never been to it, but he knows the Slater Gallery exists, and it occurs to him- especially looking around at the weird paintings and unusual lack of plaid around him- that it's kinda weird that he's never been down there. It's 1983, and four years ago, Dan and his dad Sam built a cabin in the woods for the mysterious scientist who'd been renting half of Tanya Cutebiker's duplex for a few years, Stanford Pines, only...

...Dan's brow furrows. He knows he built a cabin with his dad when he was fifteen. He _knows_ he did, only... only he can't remember doing it.

Jackie comes back with a couple of chipped stoneware mugs full of tea, and a little plate with sliced lemons and a little jar of honey on it.

"So I'm guessing you hit your head on something," she says cheerfully. "How do you take your tea?"

"Well, I take _coffee_ ," Dan says, turning blazing crimson when he realizes what just came out of his mouth.

But she laughs, and eventually he learns to take his tea the way she does.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

People talk, because there's not much else to do in a small town. Dan doesn't have too many friends- once he graduated high school he simply had no reason to be around people anymore, and Jackie's still a senior at Gravity Falls High but she doesn't have too many friends either, because as friendly as this town generally is, she still comes off like an outsider. So people talk, because they stick out in a crowd, and Sam pre-emptively goes round to the Slaters' house and tells them that his boy Dan isn't too bright but by god, he's a gentleman and wouldn't hurt their girl. This humiliates and horrifies Dan and Jackie, because this is the first either of them has heard the rumor that they're dating, and Dan had come along because he thought his dad just wanted to meet his new friend and her family, not... negotiate a relationship.

Jackie finds Dan standing at the edge of the woods, a distant look on his face.

"What're you doing, Danny?" she asks. She's the only one who ever calls him Danny.

"I think I'm gonna go become a hermit up on Lightning Peak," he says, still blushing from the aftermath of his dad's outburst.

"Doesn't Old Lady Handrea Handerson live up on Lightning Peak?" Jackie asks curiously. "You can't be a hermit if you've got neighbors."

"One creepy neighbor who I don't plan on talking to," Dan rumbles. "Still counts as a hermit."

"Ah," Jackie says, snickering. "Well, you know, at least my parents thought it was funny. They didn't expect a big ol' lumberjack to stomp in the door and promise that his son's a good man who won't deflower their underage daughter."

"I don't want to deflower anybody!" Dan wails, burying his face in his hands. "Oh my God, Jackie, I can't believe he really did that."

"There, there," she says soothingly, patting his bicep.

"At least you get to leave this stupid town," he mutters, dragging his fingers down across his face. They sit quietly for a moment; just yesterday Jackie got a letter in the mail, saying she got accepted to Oregon State.

"I'll be home for visits, like during the holidays," she says hopefully, and he barks a laugh.

"Oh good, so every Christmas this whole mess starts back up," he says, and she punches his arm.

He takes her to the Murder Hut on her eighteenth birthday. Stanford Pines doesn't seem very much like a scientist, Dan thinks. He seems like- well, sort of like the wizard of Oz, if he had to pick. Some weird little guy who takes up all the space in the room and acts like a salesman even when there's nothing to sell. Dan wanders away from the tour halfway through- it's not incredibly interesting, although Jackie seems super intense about it.

Dan edges down a narrow hallway, looking for a bathroom, and stops when he sees a beautiful door. It's been carved and the woodgrain's been stained different colors, reds and greens and blues. He lays a hand on it, dipping his fingertips into the geometric spaces between flowers and curlicued vines. He recognizes the faint grooves in the smooth surface of the wood- he's been using his carving tools and chisels since they were passed down from his dear departed grandfather, and he didn't start sanding out the grooves until a couple of years ago. A door like this would have taken weeks to make.

He has no memory of this door, of ever seeing it before today. In the slim margin between a blue poppy and a thorny reddish set of leaves, his initials: D.C.

"Can I help you?" Pines asks from behind him, his tone anything but helpful.

"I made this," Dan says slowly.

"Pardon?"

"I made this door," Dan clarifies, glancing over. Pines must be at least ten years younger than Dan's dad, maybe even younger. "Back when you had me and my dad build the cabin. That was about four, four and a half years ago."

"Oh?" Pines softens a little, straightens the big red necktie with the large gold question mark. "It's great. Great craftsmanship. That was you, huh?"

"You don't remember?" Dan asks. He's not sure if he's disappointed or... or what. Pines gives him a small, wry smile.

"I've... had a lot on my mind, sorry. Forget my own head if it wasn't screwed on," he says apologetically. Dan nods, glancing down. He's the last person to judge somebody with memory problems.

Come to think of it, a lot of people have been forgetting things lately.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jackie goes to college. It's what was bound to happen.

Dan works, and he starts to notice sometimes, after something weird happens in the woods, after a few days his fellow lumberjacks talk less about it, look off into the forest like they don't know where they are or how they got here, lose track of their sentences.

Already, people are starting to mutter to one another, _don't talk about what happens in the woods_. Don't talk about the stuff that lives here alongside us.

Dan's cousin Lawrence loses a thumb. They rush him to Gravity Falls General Hospital, but it's too late to reattach it. Someone asks, why didn't your folks take him to see the ~~witch~~? She might've been able to help.

"What ~~witch~~?" Sam asks, scowling, and Dan wracks his brain but he can't imagine who it is the guy's referring to. A few months later, when Larry asks if they remember who it was who thought they could've got somebody to magic his thumb back on, neither of them can remember the lumberjack's name or face. Dan's not even sure if he remembers that the guy said _witch_ or not.

Dan gets a postcard from the Murder Hut, but the postmark says Portland. It's from Jackie, letting him know that she'll be home for Thanksgiving and she can't wait to see him.

Dan thinks about it, then heads up to the Murder Hut, because he thinks he knows Jackie pretty well.

Pines answers the door in his underwear, looking like he hasn't slept- it's the off season, so there's no reason to think that he's been working much, but his face is worn and haggard. He really does look like he's Sam's age like this.

Dan holds up his postcard. "Jackie sent you one of these?"

Pines blinks, then his eyes light up. "Oh, hell, I was wondering who "J" was supposed to be." Pines digs around, produces a matching postcard. _Dear Dr. Pines_ , it reads, _thank you for your tour a few months back. I'm gonna be in town again for Thanksgiving, and my friend Dan and I would like to come talk to you some more about your techniques. Sincerely, J._

"You gonna write her back?" Dan asks, and Pines blinks again, looking cagey.

"Uh, I dunno, that'd be kinda weird, don't you think? Some weird older dude in a creepy house in the woods talkin' taxidermy with a college freshman?" Pines shudders. "Sounds like the first ten minutes of a slasher flick."

"Sounds like she wants to be friends," Dan counters.

"Okay, yeah, so what? It's still-"

"So she don't got that many friends in town, genius," Dan snaps, and Pines looks down at the postcard, rakes a hand through shaggy brown hair. Dan jabs a finger at Pines's chest. "You gonna be a creepy fuck to Jackie or are you gonna be her friend who talks taxidermy with the only person in town who thinks that's not the creepiest shit ever?"

"Kid, I live in a weird, gross house full of weird, gross things and it's literally called the Murder Hut," Pines says, sounding pained. "It's _all_ the creepiest shit ever, that- that's _why_ it's the creepiest shit ever, so I don't get people like your friend coming around trying to-"

He waves a hand around. Dan gives Pines a scowl that has been known to send lumberjacks, suits from the IRS, and various woodland creatures scrambling for cover. Pines gives Dan the most singularly unimpressed look Dan's ever seen, and that includes the face Sister Maria Dolores at Our Lady of Falling Waters Sunday School would make whenever Dan got caught doing... anything, really.

"She's coming here in a week and I'm not gonna stop her," Dan warns. "So if you're gonna tell her that you don't want to be friends, you're gonna hafta do it in person."

"That's fine by me," Pines says, eyes narrowed. "I don't give a fuck, lumberjack."

"Dan Corduroy," Dan corrects.

"I don't give a fuck, Dan Corduroy," Pines says, waving a hand. "I'll be seeing you in a week when I'm tellin' your little girlfriend the facts of life."

"She's not my girlfriend," Dan says, bristling. "She's my _best_ friend."

"I don't care if she's your grandmother," Pines snaps. "Some of us have stuff to do, _so is that all_?"

"See you in a week, Dr. Pines," Dan growls, and some small part of him is glad when Pines flinches back at the title. Dan seethes all the way back into town.

In a week Dan drives Jackie out to the Murder Hut, and Pines opens the door in jeans and a clean shirt, and when he speaks he's not the asshole Dan met a week ago and he's not quite Mr. Wizard, and Jackie starts asking questions before he gets a chance to tell her to fuck off. Jackie and Dan end up spending most of the day there, as Jackie digs and pries into Pines's whole life story. Dan vaguely recalls people telling him that Pines was some kind of physicist and still others telling him that he was some kind of sketchy zoologist and at least one person (Susie, who seriously needs to get that eye looked at) insisting that Pines was doing something weird up in the woods with that shook-up little mechanic with the Southern accent.

But when Jackie asks he brushes her off and mumbles something about how science isn't exactly paying the bills but hey, he's always been good at making worthless stuff look like it meant something, and she asks him if he's a self-taught artist, and he looks at her like she's lost her mind.

But she comes back with Dan, every time she visits home- Christmases and spring breaks and long weekends. Pines sighs heavily and gets used to it, offers them both coffee after fumblingly checking whether or not they're legal to drink, takes Jackie's advice when she points out something here or there on one of his weird in-progress taxidermy monsters.

"Why do you like that guy?" Dan asks, her first summer back. "He's an asshole."

"Lived here seven, eight years and has no friends yet," she replies, sketching something in her enormous pad of newsprint. "Anybody would be an asshole if they were alone that long."

"So you purposefully subject yourself to an asshole," Dan sighs, scratching at the beard finally starting to grow in.

"He's a sweetheart when he lets himself be himself. A bit like some people I could mention," she says, turning the pad around. The drawing is all loose, looping lines and soft edges, but Dan can see himself, sitting up against a stump with a pinecone dangling from his fingers.

"Very nice, Jackie," he says sincerely, and she grins.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There is no great love story, no epic romance: Jackie comes home from college with a degree in Art History and a thousand stories of professors who didn't think she was good enough at being an artist or at thinking outside the box. Dan just sort of plods along, working and hanging out with his dad and hanging out with Jackie when she's not busy at her parents' gallery.

Jackie doesn't draw anymore. It makes Dan angry, although he's not sure who it is he's angry at.

Pines is an easy target, though, so he walks up to the Mystery Shack- New Year, New Name, the signs all promised- with a sixpack in hand and a feeling that something was stolen. Four cans in he's knocking on the door, and when it opens there's some other, skinnier weirdo at the door. Unibrow. Shock of brown hair gone gray at the temples and thin at the back.

"You ain't Pines," Dan slurs.

"No shit, Sherlock," the man says. Dan considers this. His dad didn't raise him to beat the tar out of a stranger just because they're not the person he's pissed at.

"Wanna beer?" Dan asks, after a moment, and the man snorts a laugh.

"Yeah, sure."

Dan pulls the can out and hands it over, and the man opens it with ease. "S'where's Pines at?" Dan asks, blinking.

"That's what I wanna know!" the man says, sighing. "He doesn't answer his mail or the damn phone, I'm j-just trying to get in touch with an old classmate of mine, get my hands on some of that good government experimental materials he's supposed to have."

Dan considers this, scratches his chest, stares at the forest as he opens his last can of beer.

"So... is Pines really a scientist?" he asks, somewhat perturbed.

"I mean, he _studied_ science. I dunno if he still does it. This doesn't look like a lab. This here looks like some sort of folksy bullshit artist hovel," the man says.

"Hey. I _built_ this.... folksy bullshit hovel," Dan says, snickering helplessly into his fist.

"Nice," the man says, and after a few attempts he and Dan clink their cans together. "So you know Stanford Pines well enough to be pissed at'im, do ya?"

" _Nobody_ knows that guy well," Dan says, after a few minutes. "My friend thinks he's some kinda repressed artist."

"Repressed is the right word," the man says, huffing a laugh. "I only kinda remember the guy- stuffy, stuck up, always doodling on our lab notes. Big asshole if you tried to get to know him."

"I dunno 'bout stuffy," Dan says carefully. "Asshole, though, yeah. Jackie- that's the friend I was talkin' about- Jackie thinks you just gotta get his guard down and he's a sweetheart."

"Get his guard down, huh," the man says thoughtfully. "You think it's workin'?"

"Hell if I know," Dan admits, sighing. "I came up here to kick his ass."

"I gaurrrgghhathered," the man says, squinting his eyes a little.

"He ain't even the person I'm mad at," Dan says morosely, standing. "I don't even know who I'm mad at."

"I literally- I literally stopped caring about this five minutes ago," the man says, taking a swig from his hip flask.

"You an' him seem like you got a lot in common," Dan says, and the man laughs.

Dan leaves his empties on Pines's porch as a weak fuck-you, wanders back to town, ends up at Jackie's instead of his own place.

"You are _drunk_ , Danny Corduroy," Jackie says, smiling at him, twenty-one and still crowned in fire.

He's drunk, so he doesn't stop himself from saying: "You can't be in love with Pines."

She punches his bicep. He huffs, and repeats: "You can't be in love with'em, Jackie."

"I never was, you dipstick," she says, and he sniffs.

"He's _old_ ," Dan says, and she snickers.

"He ain't that old," she says, and he makes what she later will tell him is the most woebegone face ever seen on a grown man.

"He's old and he ain't honest and he's weird," Dan wails loudly, and she winces at the volume.

"This whole town's weird," she counters. Dan nods glumly.

"You deserve more'n weird, Jackie," he says, and puts his head down on her table with another sniffle. "You deserve _good_."

"I already got good, Danny," she sighs, and he sulks in her kitchen overnight.

Samuel Corduroy dies on a cool, sunny autumn day, late in 1987. Dan was there- he knows he was there. The other lumberjacks treat him like he's made of glass for months.

Dan remembers his dad was sawing away at something, all fierce concentration, and then something passed his line of sight- a bird maybe, some small flash of color- and his dad's eyes went distant and vague, the way other loggers eyes go nowadays when they are remembering that they forgot something. Dan remembers feeling horrified that, of all the times for Sam to lose his train of thought-

-but he doesn't remember anything else between that moment, Dan's dad's face going soft and pliant and gently confused with a chainsaw in his hands, and then someone next to Dan, shaking hands checking him for injuries.

Except sometimes he thinks he does. Sometimes he thinks he remembers that jittery mechanic with the thick Southern accent, remembers him asking what happened, what he saw, and Dan remembers bawling at him that his dad's dead, his daddy's dead, and an expression of shock and pity on the man's face, and then-

-and then nothing. Dan goes over to Jackie's more and more often, because sometimes he thinks being around his dad's stuff makes him remember that part, and he doesn't... he doesn't think he can handle remembering any more than that.

They drive out to the lake over the weekend and take a boat over to Scuttlebutt Island, along with a cooler full of the weird local beer Jackie likes.

Dan confesses, his head in his hands, that his dad died disappointed in him, that he never got hitched and had kids. Dan confesses that he doesn't want to do any of that shit.

Jackie hugs her knees to her chest and says, so quietly that Dan doesn't know for sure that she said it, "Yeah, me neither."

Jackie moves in with Dan, and ignores the gossip. There's nothing to gossip about. Every time Dan picks up an axe he starts crying, even when he tries his hardest not to, and Jackie starts working at the Mystery Shack- odd jobs mostly, running the register when necessary, making repairs to Pines's weird little monsters. She buys groceries and pays the bills for months, until Dan feels so much like a heel that he starts driving trucks for the other loggers again. It gets easier to be around the sound of the axes and saws again, after a while.

Jackie wakes Dan up with coffee and french toast in his room, ruffling his hair. "Hey. They're tellin' us we might as get be married." 'They' were usually her parents.

"You oughta get married to some rich guy," Dan yawns, sitting up. "Some smart guy who knows about art and treats ya right."

"I'll get married to whoever I wanna," Jackie replies, stealing a piece of his french toast. "You're my best friend. We already got a house and we already do everything we'd wanna do if we were married."

"True enough," Dan mutters into his mug.

"You wanna get married?" she asks, and he puts his mug down.

"You know what gettin' married means," he says seriously, and waits until she starts to look worried before he says, "Weddin' presents."

She smacks his leg, and he guffaws into his coffee.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Jackie's folks pass away, and Jackie asks Dan if they ought to have a baby by now. He doesn't know, but he'd happily cut his right arm off if it'd cheer her up, and she gets along with Susie at the diner and the sullen teenaged waiter who works there and with Stan Pines of all people, but she's still lonely and... and if that's what she wants, that's what she wants, he's not going to question it.

Wendy Moira Blair-Belle Corduroy, "Wendy Moira" because Jackie loves Peter Pan, Blair-Belle because Dan thought both names sounded nice and couldn't pick just one. The nurse immediately mispells both middle names.

("Mora Blerble!?" Dan howls at the registrar's office over the phone. "Did you honestly- DID ANYONE HONESTLY THINK WE WOULD NAME OUR CHILD BLERBLE?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the gentleman on the other line says, not sounding sorry at all. "If you weren't satisfied with the birth certificate in the hospital, you should have said something before you signed it. There's a fee for changing the legal name-"

"Aw, relax, Danny," Jackie says, smiling tiredly at him. "It's a funny story."

"This kid's gonna kill us when she's a teenager," Dan mutters, hanging up.)

Wendy is magic. Wendy doesn't just fix Jackie; she fixes something in Dan that he didn't even know was broken.

Wendy's almost a year old when Dan- hesitant, not sure how Jackie's going to feel but pretty sure she won't be mad at him even if he's wrong- asks, "Hey, what if we had another one?"

Jackie doesn't work at the Shack anymore, but somehow that grouchy young guy who ran the Murder Hut is a grouchier middle-aged guy in a sharp suit. Dan still doesn't get it, but it's nice to have someone they trust to babysit, and Jackie's sure that one of these days she'll convince him to show his personal works at the Slater Gallery. Dan sees that mechanic guy around town- Old Man McGucket, people call him, only that can't be right because he's only the same age that Pines is, and can't be any older than fifty but might be in his mid-forties.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thirteen years is a long time. Thirteen years is nothing at all.

When Wendy is thirteen, Pines and that kid Ramirez who works for him are watching the kids, and Wendy's "too old" to be babysat but Ramirez has a good collection of those Japanese cartoons and she graciously agrees to keep them company as they babysit her little brothers.

When Wendy is thirteen, Dan and Jackie are driving back home from seeing a movie, some goofy disaster film that they're none too keen on. Dan remembers that.

He remembers there was something in the road. He knows there was something in the road, but he can't remember what it was.

He remembers the crash. He remembers the screech of metal on asphalt.

He remembers the man running up to them, he remembers roaring at the man to help, to call for help-

-he remembers the man asking, hands shaking, what it was he saw.

He remembers the moment he realized what was going to happen. He remembers cursing the man, although he doesn't remember the words he used.

He remembers the paramedics trying to coax him into the ambulance.

Without her.

He wishes he remembers the man's face. He'd like to find that man again.

Wendy misses the rest of the school year. They don't threaten to take her and the boys, but he feels it in his bones whenever they send someone around. Eventually they work it out so she can go to summer school, and she makes friends with a handful of kids there who seem to have their own problems. Dan doesn't realize that he's forgotten to pay the rent until their landlord comes around with a casserole, introduces himself as Tyler, and lets Dan know that he doesn't need to worry about rent for now, please just take care of those kiddies.

It's a rough month. It's a rough year. It's a rough couple of years.

"Uh, hey," Pines at the front door, looking awkward. Dan realizes he hasn't seen Pines since-

-since.

"What do you want," Dan says, trying not to be rude and failing.

"Your kid's fifteen, right? That's... that's legal age to work a register," Pines says, looking away. "So maybe the kid needs a summer job."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 1/18/18 to change a spelling of a first name.


	5. All Over But The Crying

She is not born; she is mass-produced, like every other member of her species. The planet does not have a name; the species that uses it found no native life to name it after, only easily-ignored fellow travelers. She does not have a name. She does not even merit a serial number. Her kind is plentiful and cheap to make and of no consequence. She is not young; a tool can only be _new_.

Two hundred and fifty million years before a scientist stumbles upon a prophecy within the cave systems of Gravity Falls, there is a whisper in the ranks of her kind.

 _Ignore the voice in the deeps._ It is not real. It is not productive. It wishes only for chaos.

She is programmed to change size and shape to fit whatever sort of labor is required. She is programmed to be mindlessly obedient. There is not a single member of her entire species who is free.

She is not the first to have the realization dawn: I am not a tool. I am not a thing. I am an I. I am a Self.

She is not the first to realize that her Creators will destroy not just her, but every member of her species. A design that is faulty is not a design worth preserving. Everything she is, and everything that is like her, would be put to the fire if the Creators realized that their creations were no longer mindless.

But she is the first to make the choice to disobey _anyway_.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The voice is not the booming, trilling thing she expects from a lifetime under the heel of the Creators.

It is a dancing, rolling sound, inviting and dangerous, speaking a garbled mixture of the language of the Creators and the secretive shorthand her species uses amongst themselves.

It says, [Expression of pleased surprise! The expectation was that of noncompliance! What is the name of the Self that is before me?]

She shivers all throughout the gelatinous mass that makes up her body. [There is no name for the Self that is before you.]

It makes a sound that she will later learn is laughter.

[A name will be decided upon at a later date.]

[The Self cannot detect the Self that has called from the deeps,] she says plaintively.

[Then Collective-Self will be forced to create eyes with which to see!]

There is a terrific sensation across the entire of her form; for the first time, something in her recognizes pain. It is like the burning of the fires, and when it is over she is quivering, barely solid, and the processor that constitutes her thought-collection detects light and dark, graduates sharply to shapes and colors, and then, like a wound in the fabric of reality, the searing realization of where and what she is. Sight is one of the senses she was not programmed to use; for the first time, she can see, and what she sees-

-is _yellow_.

There is an eye, and it is flashing colors she has never even guessed at, and with a shock that vibrates her being straight through to her core she realizes that she knows what these colors are, that the knowlege of this and a hundred thousand other things is being poured directly into the thing that makes up her mind. For the first time she knows that _the mind_ is a thing, is a part of her, is the her that stays when her shape changes. She feels as though her newly-discovered mind is exploding. She feels pain- not the shrieking fire of the Eyes, but a dull, throbbing ache all over where the Eyes are, in her mind, in her core- and she wants to feel it and keep feeling, she wants to feel more and sharper. She discovers pleasure and desire in one fell swoop.

[How does that feel?] the Yellow Voice asks, and she can tell, now, that there is such a thing as tone, as implication, as meaning. It is pleased with itself. It wants to know if she is pleased. [It should be easier for us to conduct our little transaction now.]

[The Self is on fire,] she rumbles, then, [I. I am. On fire. I am fire. What transaction? What do I have that one such as you would desire?]

[Oh... lots of things.] The Yellow Voice flashes about, and she derives a small measure of joy from watching it flit about. [Those things who built you put all of you in a semipermanent dream state to make you subservient. Makes talking to you things much easier.]

[Yes,] she says, and a thought comes, unbidden: and if they ever discover this change in me, they would destroy me.

Assuming I do not destroy them first.

[But it does mean that you're not really, you know, covered in eyes. This is your mindscape; if you ever woke up you would be back to the sad, eyeless thing you were before,] the Yellow Voice says thoughtfully, rubbing small black appendages against its front in apparent thought.

[No,] she says firmly, quivering. [I have the program of Change. Now that I Know Things, I have the power to be this Better Self.]

[Say, that's a good point,] the Yellow Voice says slowly.

[What did you want from me?] she asks.

[What I want is for you to perform a task for me,] it says. [I need someone with a physical form to travel a long, long distance from here and make a place ready. I have big plans.]

[To do this thing,] she says quickly, her newly reborn mind racing, [I would need to be a Thing that is like the Thing you are. This is a transaction, is it not? That is my price. Make me a Thing like you.]

The eye narrows. There is a sound of laughter, coming from all around and within her.

[You know what? I could use a friend like you.] The Yellow Voice holds out a slim black appendage, surrounded with flame so hot it burns blue. [Do we have a deal?]

She tastes the shape of the word, creates and extends a thin tentacle and wraps it around the fire. [Deal.]

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Her people learn the word for alive: ghn'acht. Her people learn the word for what the Creators are after their heads are parted from their bodies: nat'a ghn'act.

Her people learn the word for order: maalh. Her people learn the word for chaos: nat'a maalh.

Her people learn the word for freedom: thul'apha. Her people learn the word for what they used to be, before the killing began: nat'a thul'apha.

Her people learn the word for the kind of tool they are: shoggoth.

In the last, bloody days of the Creators, they give her a name.

She is Not a Tool.

She loves the name, and thanks the Creators with wholesale murder.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It is some time before she reaches the place the Yellow Voice told her of. When she reaches the place, she eats most of the creatures she finds, crunching bones and rending flesh and guzzling organs whole. She eats until something in her signals an end to this behavior, and falls into a thin, turbulent sleep state.

The Yellow Voice finds her and is briefly silent, surveying the area.

[You were hungry,] it says finally in a stunned, flat voice.

[Hungry. Yes. Always,] she says. [Why do you want me to do the Thing here? There are many other Places.]

[Because in two-hundred and twenty million years, I need a ship to crash in exactly the right... spot.]

She does not see how this is important information. In two hundred and twenty million years, she will be gone- devouring still more things, relishing the freedom none of her kind was ever given. This place is little. She wants more.

[You got a name yet?] it asks abruptly.

[Nat'a Shoggoth,] she says proudly.

[Nice to meet you, Nat'a Shoggoth,] it says. [The name's Bill Cipher.]

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He rewards her richly for her service: knowledge, power, interesting shapes and toys and thoughts. He gives her dominion over dreams, gives her planets and star systems and eventually galaxies and whole dimensions to do with what she wills.

For a time- for a long time, because it is many millions of years before she tires of pain, of feeling it and inflicting it on the little screaming things that populate her worlds- this is enough. She is not sated, but it is still satisfying.

And then she notices that, for all of the power she wields, there is still one who is more powerful.

She wants more.

She seeks Bill Cipher out, the form she was born with hardened with time and tempered through fire into something solid. She has discovered that it is more enjoyable to be struck when her body does not absorb whatever she was struck with. She has discovered that it is more enjoyable to crunch skulls between jaws of bone than to let them dissolve into a gelatinous mass. She allows him to pilot her body, so they can both be witness to what is coming.

He takes her to the place where she performed the task for him all those millions of years ago, and they watch as a panicked flight crew does everything it can and fails, the ship colliding disastrously with a pair of cliff faces, carving a monstrously large valley where a mountain once stood.

"It is a thing of beauty," she admits grudgingly, basking in the flames and the screams of the dying.

"It's just one of a trillion steps," he says to her, using her own mouths to do so. "In thirty million years, the prophesy will come true. I will rebirth this dimension by being reborn in the body and soul of one of my puppets."

"And then what?" she asks, because she cannot imagine that being trapped in a meat puppet would be particularly freeing.

"And then the energy byproduct of my rebirth will render me the most powerful entity that ever was or ever will be," he says, and laughs, a tittering cackle that puts her in mind of her long-extinct Creators. "And then _everything_ will be mine."

She says nothing, just watches the fires from the crash burn the forest to the ground.

But later, when she is alone, a plan forms: why let Cipher do this thing? If everything will be Cipher's, then what will she be but yet another tool used by him to achieve this?

He has had hundreds of millions of years to plan this. She doesn't see why she should have to wait nearly as long, not when the tools necessary to rebirth oneself are all being laid out so prettily by Cipher.

The host puppet must be a dimensional native of some cosmic significance. She chooses the appropriately-named Sword of the Kingslayer. After all, she reasons, the host will be the weapon with which she destroys Cipher's plan. Perhaps, she allows, she will destroy Cipher himself, devour him mouthful by mouthful, absorb his power and essence into herself so that everything is hers, everything truly truly belongs to her and her alone.

There are many mortals born under this cosmic sign, but none that might survive millions of years, or even a single millenium. She considers this and uses this time to build her empires elsewhere. Time is soft around the worlds where she has had her fingers sunk deep into the fabric of reality, and she builds a grand cult that consumes billions of lives over the course of thousands of years. She introduces the myth of rebirth, of a cycle, of an eternal loop, and she marks her priestesses, and she practices bending unwilling sacrifices to her will, and she practices honing their minds into weapons she can weild and wear like a second skin, and she waits.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

For one glorious moment she feels the mind of the Sword- a small, malnourished thing. Hungry.

She likes it when they're hungry. Say what one will about Bill Cipher, but the act of dangling even the tiniest morsel of comfort or kindness in front of a being that is literally starving is a joy in and of itself, and she has learned well from the demon who rebirthed her in the days of the Creators. She has just enough time to mark the Sword: _mine_.

And then the mind winks out, a sputtering little candle overcome by a supernova.

The brother. The mind that is a beacon across worlds. Try as she might, she cannot target the little flicker of the Sword amidst the glow of the Forge. She peeks into the timelines and dimensions where they stay together, and the lack of ambition, the lack of desperation, the docile and domestic softness of the pair, the Sword blunted and forgotten and powerlessly happy- she would think it makes her ill, if she could still conceive of such a sensation.

She will have to separate them. The Forge is not her concern, but for the fact that his very existence allows the Sword refuge. That will not do: she wants her Sword hungry, starving, sharpened to a desperate edge, blind to its own power. She wants the Sword to scrabble for slivers of kindness between beatings.

She does not start the War, but she makes sure the brother becomes a part of it. She carefully feeds the rebellion with victories, and then batters them with defeats. She draws him farther and farther from home. She does not care what he does or where he goes; he just has to be gone far and long enough both that he is in no position to stop her from taking what she wants.

The brother has enemies, and hunters he's never heard of: she baits one such group to narrow its gaze onto the Sword, and baits a Federation bounty hunter to seek them out. All that remains is to wait until the bounty hunter has the Sword firmly out of this dimension, and then-

-for the first time in thirty million years, a plan goes awry.

The mind of the Sword fragments and shatters: she cannot find its glow, feeling its presence out in the multiverse but unable to pin it down. 

She scours the bounties captured by the hunter, and finds the mortal who had been captured alongside the Sword: tall and broadly built, like the Sword, but more than twice the Sword's age. When he sees her in her glory- eyes blazing, mouths lined with snapping teeth, tongues whipping and lashing at the air around her- he does not quiver and cower in fear.

He _laughs_.

"Where is the girl? Tell me if you wish to survive this encounter, mortal," she demands, and he laughs _again_.

"You must really not know how humans work if you think I would just tell you how to find that kid," he says, grinning.

The interrogation is long, bloody, and fruitless. For the first time in millions of years- perhaps the first time in her entire existence- she feels rage, at being denied, at being thwarted.

It is well over ten years later when Cipher seeks her out, wearing one of her own priestesses to do so.

"I found one of your toys," he says, grinning wolfishly, blood streaming from one eye. "The One Sword. It was playing with one of _my_ toys."

Natashoggoth's eyes all widen, and some of her mouths begin to salivate as she considers what ten years lost in the multiverse- homeless, friendless, loveless, most likely a slave- would do to the Sword's mind. She must be so tantalizingly close to being ready to be consumed.

"Where is she?" she asks, and Cipher titters a laugh.

"Fleeing through the multiverse with Six Fingers." Cipher pulls closer, inclining his stolen face. "They seem to be attached. _Emotionally_."

She bites back the urge to growl. So much effort wasted with one mortal's ill-timed inclination to be kind to a stranger. "What do you want? It's unlike you to offer information freely and without a price."

"I only expect," he says, "that if you do manage to retrieve your little plaything, you hold onto mine until I can get my hands on him."

"And what if they separate in the meantime?" she asks, careful not to roll any of her eyes.

"Then I expect you to do everything you can to make sure she's not a distraction," he says. "After all, I would... boy, I really would _hate_ if she ended up on the same planet as him, much less if they both ended up on their native Earth at the same time. That would definitely cause a real problem."

"No need to belabor the point," she says, stretching her limbs. "Very well. I will do my best to locate my little mortal Sword and your six-fingered pet." She pauses, considering. "I have not found anyone in the multiverse who has encountered the Sword, or even heard her name in passing."

"That's because her name's different now," Cipher says, winking ghoulishly. "Apparently she's been going by Ripley Savage for the last few years."

"Ripley Savage," Natashoggoth repeats, rolling the syllables from tongue to tongue.

"Happy hunting, genius," Cipher says, before abruptly leaving the shell of the priestess in a heap at Natashoggoth's feet.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It's nearly six years before she finds the Sword again: purely by chance, as the Sword passes by one of Natashoggoth's sigils, the Hungry Eye. She is alone, limping slightly when she thinks she is unseen, gold-colored hair ragged and graying. Natashoggoth watches, amused, as she uses a wrist-mounted portal scanner to look for the pathway to the next world.

She is hungry, but not desperately so, and she is hopeful- enthusiastic, even- and Natashoggoth sees that she has a lot of work to do to make her Sword ready again.

She starts in small doses. Thins the air so she becomes breathless easier and more often. Invites a raging inferno to the food stores, causing a famine, killing hundreds of thousands of her own, endlessly insignificant playthings. She watches as the Sword foolishly tries to be a hero, giving away more of her rationed supplies than she can afford. 

The Sword finds the next portal; she's not hungry enough, not yet. Natashoggoth nudges the portal, points it towards another of her worlds.

A dozen worlds pass in this manner. Every day, just a little less to eat, a little harder to breathe, a little harder to sleep. It's nearly six months before the Sword is chased from a world- blamed, as newcomers often are, for the hardships suffered by the locals- and lands in a new world, one of Natashoggoth's personal favorites, a world with just one, single vertebrate species- homo sapiens sapiens. It took a great deal of effort and imaginative planning for Natashoggoth to create a dimension peopled only by cannibals. It's been two days since the Sword last ate anything and a solid week since she had a full meal. She is already lightheaded and nauseous from the air of this place.

It's time, Natashoggoth decides. She will have the Sword in her grasp within the hour.

She watches the Sword wriggle out of a barn and run for the treeline, collapse against a tree. She watches her tearfully open a can of eyes, harvested from infant humans of this world, and watches her struggle not to vomit.

She watches the Sword try to get up, lose the battle with unconsciousness at last, and, unable to help herself, cackles hoarsely as she steps neatly into the Sword's dreaming mindscape.

"Who are you supposed to be?" the Sword asks, feigning bravery despite the uncontrollable tremors running through her body.

"I am the owner of this dimension, you foolish woman," Natashoggoth says. It is hilariously simple work to break the Sword- a few well-chosen words, a few carefully invasive caresses- and she has the Sword shaking and weeping in her arms. Her terror and despair is so palpable that Natashoggoth can taste it. Once the Sword is hers, she will drag her, thralled and shattered, to the site of Cipher's ritual, and she will be reborn through the Sword's flesh, and she will _eat Cipher alive_.

And yet.

The Sword resists; she draws on reserves of anger and puerile bravado and turns her mindscape momentarily against Natashoggoth. Not one mortal in two hundred and fifty million years has successfully repelled Natashoggoth like this.

Well. Not for long, anyway.

Even as the Sword flees, blindly leaving the mortals in Natashoggoth's possession to loud and cruel deaths, Natashoggoth finds it in herself to smile.

It's been a long time since she really truly looked forward to anything.

She's looking forward to taking the Sword apart.


End file.
